


FUCKMYLIFE666

by Ultimatum



Series: Transgender Dysphoria Blues [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Bad Days, Body Dysphoria, FTM Dave, Gender Dysphoria, Illustrated, Misgendering, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:45:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4314513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultimatum/pseuds/Ultimatum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know I'm already just a skeleton,<br/>I don't have the heart to match" -Against Me!</p><p>Dave is having a Bad Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	FUCKMYLIFE666

**Author's Note:**

> hey so like. this series is going to be basically a bunch of trans homestuck AU snippet things based on the Trans Dysphoria Blues album by Against Me! which is literally my fave album. id recommend it! (but warnings for slurs in the song. also, the singer is trans. ahhh laura jane grace. my queen)  
> but anyway yeah. the title is a song in it. also, im writing this as a trans person myself so. srry if there are any errors, i dont speak for all LGBT folk. may be triggering

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=3588eo4) (my trans dave headcanon from my tumblr: asexualls. my art. hope you enjoy the fic)

When the feeling comes creeping up on you again, you don't really want to admit it. Things have been hard lately, and your life has been like a haze of unreality. When your arms move through space and time, they are not your own. And the sky, the air, and the universe continue to glide around you in a way that leaves you feeling empty and static in a world that you can see moving too fast right in front of you. 

It's a puzzling thing to feel, to think, to explain. But you don't feel _you_. 'You' is a stranger that you're stuck inside, with sharp hips and wide thighs and chubby arms; but you are not this stranger. You never have been. You can see what you should be, but you know you can never be the lean _man_ you want to be. 

You guess you kind of want to look like Bro when you're older. Tall, wide, smooth. Not short, chubby, and awkward. Bro is so much better than you are at everything, and you kind of wish you could be like that. Basically, you just wish you could be anyone other than yourself. Being you fucking sucks. You hate it, and you hate yourself. You hate this empty unreal feeling, and you hate feeling half-way out of your body, and you hate hating yourself. So you pretend it's not happening through the thick brain-fog and push on. 

But it keeps happening.

Fuck. Now's not the time to reference that shitty comic, Dave. Good job, you tool.

Rose says that she respects how realistic you are about your transition. You don't get mad when people accidentally misgender you. You take your time to explain shit to ignorant assfucks. You're patient. 

But

You don't want to be anymore.

For once, just for once, you'd like to yell and cry and scream about it. You don't want to be the good little trans boy, you don't want to be realistic anymore. You just want to be happy. You want to be _you_ and unapologetically you for once in your life. But until that time comes, you're Dave. Dave who 'understands' how hard it is for other people to accept you. Who understands how 'big of a change it is for everyone else'--and  
God.

You want to vomit.

When morning comes crawling over the horizon, it brings with it the start of another dawn of discomfort. You practically hobble out of bed, hunched over and already feeling cranky, to your binder. It's a morning tradition for you, one that you're not particularly partial to, and you slip into your binder the same way you've done it the hundreds of days before this one. Its the same, just like all of the other times, and you're glad when you can't feel the shit on your chest moving anymore. A silver lining to your day, if you will. 

There's a phantom ache right behind your ribs when you first put it on, as there usually is; it's a feeling that is reminiscent of when you used to use ace bandages, and it lasts only a moment before you settle into yourself again and slip into the rest of your things and bend over to tie your shoes.

Bro is already awake and out in the kitchen when you get yourself together, and you go to get yourself some food, but are not surprised to find every single cupboard to be empty. It's usually like this, it's fine. Sure, it kind of sucks to not have any food to eat, but you roll with it like you roll with every other thing that Bro throws your way.

Instead, you get yourself a tall glass of water and drink it fast, hoping to wash out your exhaustion before school starts.

Bro slinks past you, his hair a greasy mess and his shakes folded and hanging off the front of his shirt. Somehow, he looks good even when he's half-dead, and you find yourself a little jealous of his easy coolness. Despite looking like he just crawled out of his own grave, Bro gives your hair a playful tousle and mumbles, "Morning, Abby." Like it's nothing. Like what he just said was nothing. Of course, of course this had to happen now. Today.

You stop moving completely as your shoulders go up and your heart rate practically doubles. You can't roll with this. 

Bro stops, removes his hand completely from your head. He isn't the type of person to show remorse often, but you can feel it in this moment, like it's palpable in the air. He's silent in a way he usually isn't for another second as he realizes his mistake and scrapes the words out of his throat. They all sound off, like he's speaking through another person. "Fuck. Dave, I'm sorry. I was just tired, and I wasn't paying attention to what I was saying-"

You know he didn't mean it, you really do, but your head hurts and the sting of your birth name is still fresh in your mind, so you walk away from Bro without a word and grab your backpack. "I'm going to walk to school today, I think."

Bro is standing by the futon, completely still and tense. Good, you think. Fuck Bro. Fuck him and fuck you for being so sensitive to this shit and fuck the entire fucking universe for making you this way--

He doesn't respond to what you said as you slip outside, so you get to walking. The air outside is frigid, and you find yourself feeling grateful as your start moving. The stinging of your ears and nose is a pleasant distraction right now. 

Yet still, your heart is pounding in your throat and you already feel like this is going to be a piss-poor excuse for a Wednesday. It's been practically a year since you've started socially transitioning, and even now, you don't see much changing. A large group of your peers still call you _she_ and your friends still mess up sometimes and even though a good sum of people respect you and understand you still feel like nothing is _actually_ changing. You think that the feeling is sort of like being slowly being crushed to death by a car. Even accidental slip-ups are like the end of the world for you nowadays. Maybe it's the dysphoria. Or maybe it's you being too sensitive. You hate it. \---- Worshiping your ideal body and putting it on a pedestal isn't healthy. You know this, you really do. But you just. Can't help it. You wish for a jawline and broad shoulders and a low voice and face hair and even awkward boy B.O. and all of the things that come with typical boy puberty. You want it all, the good, the bad, the hideous. You just want to be the you that you have wanted to be for years. The you that can only be managed through HRT, something Bro has told you he doesn't have the money for. So, you settle on dreaming and dreaming of the body that eludes you. [](http://tinypic.com?ref=xfrk28)

It's daunting and unfair and you absolutely loathe how much importance you put on what you think your masculine appearance should be like, but you seriously just don't know how to stop, and you're not sure you want to stop in the first place. It's an escape from reality. An escape from the reality that _is_ your treacherous body.

The day simply drags on, and you continue to obsess and overthink throughout your classes until finally, school is let out and you're mercifully permitted to rush home. You just want to get back as fast as you can, take off your binder, get some ice-cream, and watch reruns of Full House until you pass out. The ideal mope-setup. Perfect.

But of course, nothing today is going the way you want it to; John catches up with your brisk walk as you're leaving the school, looking as cheery as usual. "Hey Dave!"

You don't respond and will him to go away before you have a meltdown.

"Dave!"

You tune him out, trying not to focus on his deep voice and stubbly chin and muscly arms and--

"You prick, why are you ignoring me?" It's a playful tone. The reasonable side of you knows that he's just playing around, but you're feeling rude today. Envious. Jealous. He has all these things you want, and yet he just fucking takes them for granted.

"Leave me the fuck alone, John."

You think that the tone of your voice shocks him, or at least makes him a bit confused, because his eyebrows furrow together as he trips over his feet to keep up with you. Your throat is starting to feel tight, kind of like you want to puke, yet kind of like you're about to have an asthma attack. In actuality, you think you're about to cry. 

John puts his hands out in a placating manner, "Chill, dude. Are you okay? Did someone give you a hard time today or something?" 

The longer you hear him speak, the more you want to pull all your hair out. So, you shake your head tersely, begging internally for him to leave you be. Please. You just want to go home and cry until your eyes burn and fall asleep. "No, I'm fine John. Just. Go away, alright?"

"Not until you tell me what's bothering you! I'll follow you home if I have to, Dave."

"And what if nothing is bothering me?"

"Dave!" He sounds impatient. Good. Maybe he'll just leave you alone if you piss him off enough.

"John."

"Dave!!"

"John."

"Ugh!" Ha, bye John. "Fine. When you stop being such an obstinate butt, come talk to me. Bottling things up will get you nowhere." 

And he leaves. He leaves and you feel shitty but you're also glad because there's nothing but sweet silence around you; no deep voice to compare yours to, no better body to envy. Just the blissful sounds of your own self-hatred echoing around your thoughts like a bad vine stuck on loop. You're a bad friend, you push everyone away, you're ugly, you're too girly, you're not enough, you're not enough, you're not enough. Haha, hilarious. You're hilarious. Welcome to Dave's inner monologue, constant down-talk and internalized self-hatred. 

When you get home, you skip the reruns and eat an entire carton of ice-cream with your binder still on. You don't want to take it off. Don't want to see what's there. Bro isn't home and won't be for hours, so there's no holding back.

In less than ten minutes, there's snot dripping down your face and you can barely see the spoon in front of you through your tears as you shovel mint chip over and over into your mouth. Past your too-pink lips. You want to vomit.

So you do.

**Author's Note:**

> mmmmm srry if this seems so melodramatic, but bad dysphoria is often really really, well... bad. and yeah this is short but :/ carpal tunnel is a dick to me and often gets in the way of my writing bc im in pain a lot bc of it lmao. stay tuned for the next installment of trans babies(TM)


End file.
